A Mage's Last Run
by Restless Goddess
Summary: Set at the end of Dragon Age 2. An Apostate Mage makes a last bid for freedom, no matter what the cost may be. Written for the Dragon Age: Asunder competition in Jan/Feb 2012.


Title:A Mage's Last Run

Rating: T

Spoilers: Through the end of DA2

AN: I wrote this for the Dragon Age: Asunder competition almost a year ago, where the task was to write from a Templar's or Mage's perspective. I'd say more, but then it would just reveal how much of a sore loser I am when it comes to writing competitions. Wait…oops.

…

I do not have a moment to stop, but I must find one or make one; I cannot keep going at this pace.

I have been running since chaos broke loose in Kirkwall barely a day ago. Word spread like wildfire of the Great Battle between the Mage Orsino and the Templar order, and even faster, word of the Rite of Annulment. The instant the Senior Mage fell, the Rite was invoked. There was no warning – only the immediate Templar declaration of our final hours.

Somehow, they knew, knew which houses in the Alienage, Lowtown, and even Hightown held Apostates eluding Templar wrath. The moment the shine of their armor flashed through the streets and their boots thundered an ominous march, Mother sent me out the back door. Her words still echo in my mind. _You have always made me proud, Andreline. Never forget that I love you._

I ran with my brother, so brave for one so young. He held my hand as we raced through the streets, searching for a way out, into the wilderness – maybe along the Wounded Coast, or through Sundermount. But then the march turned towards us, ringing in my ears as execution drums. _Go, Andi! I'll distract them! Go!_

I wouldn't let him.

I tried to stop him.

Instead I saw him crushed beneath the Templars' inexorable advance. I did not even have time for tears. Only time to run.

I am outside Kirkwall, every inhale igniting my lungs as I race for Sundermount with energy born of terror, glad for my staff to help propel me forward, to help me keep myself standing.

It is with no relief at all that I reach the remains of the Dalish Encampment, but it is the moment I need to rest. I gasp for air, bracing myself on my staff as I quickly scan the site for something, _anything _I can use to help me. The wagons remain, only just beginning to show signs of disuse. Were it not for the wolves, the Elven bones would be just as fresh.

I frantically search through the wagons as fast as I can, cursing under my breath at the scarcity of supplies. It shouldn't surprise me that there's hardly anything left; Maker knows how many bandits have been to this camp before me. And yet, hidden among the detritus as if a miracle biding its time for me, there rests a full flask of water in the corner of the last wagon I search. I uncork it and drain the contents greedily, not bothering to determine if it really is safe to drink. It is a chance I'll have to take, for I have more time to be sick hours later than I do to stop and check the water now.

Night is in its full glory, and the stars shine with clearer brilliance than normal, as if mocking the spectacle they overlook. The only sliver of hope I have is that the light is bright enough for me to see by, but not enough for my pursuers to see me. So I think, until I hear the cadent thunder behind me. Either I am not the first one to take to the hills or I had been seen fleeing the city. Neither thought is comforting.

With a burst of speed rest and water have given me, I head for Sundermount, hoping that Templar armor will prove difficult to climb in. To my horror, the soldiers are relentless, their march unimpeded as they follow me up the mountain.

For once, I curse the path carved into the rock.

I sprint ahead to a bend in the trail before making a sharp turn in the opposite direction and sliding down the most gentle-looking slope I can find, which is still spectacularly vicious. I try to guide my descent with my staff, but it catches on a stray rock and sends me hurtling forward. Somehow I manage not to cry out in fear or pain or both as I am flung airborne, and I instinctively curl into a ball and cover my head, doing my best to clutch my staff at the same time. The bloody state of my hands when I finally screech to a halt at the base of the slope is proof enough that, had I not raised them in protection, my life may have ended with my head dashed against the mountainside.

Though I know the Templars can't have missed my suicidal roll, I am fairly certain – or hopeful, at least – that they won't be in any hurry to follow my unconventional trail. After a few seconds, a familiar, terrifying sound reaches my ears, and I realize that they don't have to: they doubled-back as I did, or had at least split up to block all paths of escape, both injurious and not.

I turn and see them coming closer, preparing to charge, swords drawn and eager for my blood. I stand frozen and helpless as I am forced to choose: do I cast a spell, giving me extra time to escape but confirming my identity as a Mage, or do I continue to run, knowing I will eventually falter? The choice is made for me as one of the Templars rushes forward. I strike the base of my staff against the ground, and a Mind Blast ripples forth with thunder of my own. The Templars before me drop, but higher on the mountain I can hear the march of boots become a stampede, punctuated by rallying cries and promises of death. I turn from the heap of armored bodies and continue to run.

They are bigger than me, stronger than me, faster than me. I will never beat them to the Wounded Coast; they will cut me down before my feet can even reach the sand. There is only one path left to me, but it is not a hope. At the end of the path, my life will no longer be my own to save; my fate will be decided by another.

With calm I thought I'd never feel, I run for the Bone Pit, praying that the fears of all of Kirkwall are real.

The starlight washes the expanse of the Pit in the color of the bones it is named for and those that lay scattered within it. I pass skeletons of all creatures and races twisted in agony and decay as I race for the center. Each shell that once housed a soul seems to watch as I finally skid to a stop, the hungry dust swirling at my feet as I take in my surroundings.

Oh irony, that my plan requires me to bide my time when before I had none at all to risk.

My exhausted breathing finally steadies, even as my lungs still burn from the exertion. My robes hang in tatters as the slow-congealing blood from my hands drips irregular patterns on the ground. I can hear death running closer, and I force myself to stand up straight and meet it with dignity and honor.

Only when I see the mass of steel and hatred in the mouth of the Bone Pit do I hit the ground with my staff again. A brilliant beam of light shoots from the gem at its crown, leaving spots in my vision as the sound of a horn blares its accompaniment. The Templars stop, confused, no doubt wondering why I would further announce my presence with a beacon blatant enough to bring all of Kirkwall's forces down upon me. There is a moment of wary silence as I gaze across the white stretch soon to be saturated with blood – mine or theirs or all of ours together. And then, blessedly, a third type of thunder echoes around us, turning those of the march and spells to whispers.

The ground shakes as there is a crash just behind me, making me stumble as a looming shadow eclipses the stars. In that moment, at the turning point where my life hangs in the balance, I smile.

My name is Andreline. I am seventeen years old and an Apostate Mage, but never a Maleficar. I have been running from the Templars my entire life, and I have been led to this: a final stand in an arena of death so far away from home.

I can feel the heat behind me, feel the air displaced by the extension of great wings, hear the dragon's intake of breath as it prepares to unleash its fury. Holding my staff in front of me and bowing my head, I close my eyes and accept whatever fate awaits me.

Let it not be said that I died in vain, nor that I did not take my adversaries with me.


End file.
